


Dreams of Today (dreams of us)

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FIFA World Cup 2010, FIFA World Cup 2014, Infidelity, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tournament of a lifetime and five moments in between – each time Memo falls a little more in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams of Today (dreams of us)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2nd round of [Futbal Minibang](http://futbal-minibang.livejournal.com/). You can find the original post and the accompanying fanmix [here](http://futbal-minibang.livejournal.com/8862.html).  
> Thank you [dld_ftw](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dld_ftw) for the beta and [lunasenzanotte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte) for the beautiful fanmix!
> 
> A word of warning: this World Cup was the first time I paid close attention to the Mexico NT, so my knowledge of them is shaky at best. Apologies for any mistakes I may have made!

Memo arrives to the national team’s training camp without knowing what to expect.  
  
He is out of contract with Ajaccio, and he has no clue where he will end up next season. That is irrelevant for now – he has actually told his agent not to tell him how the negotiations are going and what teams are interested – what he needs to do now is put all his focus on the World Cup.  
  
He will convince the coach this time, Memo tells himself, he will finally fulfil that one dream: a World Cup debut as the number one goalkeeper for his country. He deserves it, this time he really deserves it.  
  
Except he still remembers South Africa and how he was left on the bench, the disappointment and bitterness when the coach told him, “You’re not ready yet, we need the experience.”  
  
Back then, Memo had convinced himself it was the sensible choice – his time would come, Brazil would be his tournament, he could wait for four more years.  
  
But now he is in Brazil, and he still cannot say for sure he is going to play, because Corona is just as good as him, even the coach has said as much.  
  
Memo tells himself he is better – he deserves it more – but the more he says it, the more he doubts it.  
  
It is his third World Cup, and Memo is afraid he will forever be stuck as the second choice.  
  
“Memo,” Chicharito appears to his side out of nowhere poking his side playfully, dragging out the syllables on his tongue, “Why the long face? Not happy to see us?”  
  
“Don’t be stupid,” Memo flashes a smile at his friend and ducks out of the way as Chicharito tries to poke his cheek to show just how long his face really is, “It’s great to be here with you all. I’ve missed this.”  
  
His voice trails off as Rafa strides into the dressing room, a silent entrance, greetings offered only to a few of his closest friends, but still all the attention is drawn to him – a born leader, charisma practically oozing out of his very being.  
  
Something must have shown on Memo’s face, because Chicharito proceeds to ruffle his hair with both hands, his tone knowing, teasing, “You mean you’ve missed the  _captain_ , don’t you?”  
  
“Stop it!” Memo laughs as he pushes Chicharito off him, doing his best to hide how flustered he really is. He snatches his hair band out of his bag and pulls his hair back, trying to fix his messy curls from the attack, ignoring the kissy faces Chicharito is making at him.  
  
Rafa is a legend, a point of reference, a true professional that has led the national team in three World Cups, going into fourth.  
  
He was also Memo’s first and biggest teenage crush back in the day, when Memo was still playing the junior league and the World Cup was nothing but a big and seemingly unattainable dream.   
  
Those days are long gone: Memo and Rafa are equals now, both playing for the same shirt, for the same dream.  
  
Rafa catches Memo’s gaze over the heads of their teammates and flashes him a familiar smile, and Memo has to drag his eyes away when the captain pulls his shirt over his head.  
  
“You’re blushing,” Chicharito informs him quietly, petting Memo’s hair affectionately as if he was a puppy, “Did you ever talk about what happened in South Africa? I know you’re fine with each other and all but—”  
  
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Memo retorts quickly, ransacking his bag for his missing gloves so he could escape the dressing room that suddenly feels too small for him.  
  
“It’s been four years, Memo; surely you should be over him by now.”  
  
“Not  _here_ ,” Memo hisses angrily, looking around to make sure no one else heard the exchange – Andrés raises one eyebrow curiously but no one else is paying any attention to them – “It was nothing. Just forget it, okay?”  
  
What happened in South Africa had been a mistake – just a careless fling that could have destroyed both of their careers – and there was never anything to get over. Memo is a grown up now, with a family of his own, so why would he hang onto some silly past fancy?  
  
“Memo,” Rafa calls after him when he tries to slip out unnoticed, clutching his gloves much tighter than actually necessary. He stops reluctantly, turns to face the captain with a shy smile.  
  
“Ready for the big stages now?” Rafa asks him easily – far too easily, as if they have not spent the last four years avoiding any unnecessary contact – “I’m sure you’ll be great.”  
  
“We don’t even know who’s gonna be the first choice though,” Memo reminds him softly, twisting the gloves in his hands nervously. To hell with being over anything, Rafa still has the skill to make Memo’s heart skip a few beats without even trying.  
  
“Well I do know,” Rafa insists with a crooked smile, and he reaches out to brush his fingers against Memo’s flushed cheek, “This is gonna be your World Cup, Memo. It’s all up to you from here.”  
  
And if the fluttering in Memo’s chest is anything to go by, that embarrassing teenage crush is still well and alive. Or maybe he is just excited for the World Cup, just like any normal footballer would be.  
  
  
  


_Natal // June 13, Friday // Mexico – Cameroon // 1 – 0_

  
  
  
  
Memo did it: he played his first World Cup game and kept the clean sheet!  
  
Memo is high on the victory, hugging each of his teammates in excitement, not caring if he has already hugged Andrés too many times to count or if Chicharito keeps throwing pointed looks between him and their captain.  
  
Rafa only catches up with him when they are deep in the tunnel, hidden from the TV cameras and the curious eyes of the journalists.  
  
“Congratulations on the World Cup debut, kid,” he says softly as he pulls Memo into a hug that is a bit too tight, a bit too intimate to be just a casual hug between teammates, “I told you, didn’t I? You did great.”  
  
Memo hesitates for a moment, frozen in Rafa’s arms. It is only when Rafa loosens his hold and begins to pull away from Memo that he realizes he did not return the hug.  
  
“Wait!” Memo says quickly, lifting his hands to Rafa’s waist to stop him from moving, only realizing how desperate he must seem when Rafa chuckles and wraps his arms around Memo’s shoulders again.  
  
“Have you grown?” he asks after a while, stroking Memo’s hair, “Or were you always this tall?”  
  
“Of course I was. I’ve barely grown since I started playing professionally,” Memo huffs in annoyance, because Rafa has no right to treat him like a child, not after South Africa, “I’m almost 29, with a child of my own – I’m not a kid anymore, Rafa.”  
  
“I know,” Rafa smiles at him wistfully as he finally releases his hold, caressing Memo’s cheek gently and then tweaking his nose, a playful reminder of their short time together, “But a man can dream, right?”  
  
It was so simple back then, when Memo was awestruck over the mere idea that Rafa could want him. Back then the outside world did not matter, because it – whatever it was – was never supposed to continue after the tournament.  
  
“Can we dream together?” Memo asks softly, his voice barely audible, and his breath catches at his throat when Rafa moves away from him, the tips of his fingers running over Memo’s jaw line one more time before the touch is gone completely.  
  
“This is your dream,” Rafa tells him as he turns around to follow the rest of the team to the dressing rooms, “I’ve got no part in it.”  
  
“Of course you do, idiot,” only the tunnel walls are there to hear Memo’s late reply.  
  
  
  


_Fortaleza // June 17, Tuesday // Brazil – Mexico // 0 – 0_

  
  
  
  
Memo’s body is moving like on autopilot, just going through the motions without taking anything in, his eyes seeing the people around him but not really noticing them.  
  
He did it, he played the perfect match, against the toughest opponent in their group.  
  
Somewhere far away, in the back of his mind, he can hear the fans chanting his name.  
  
Chicharito is there, running towards him, and so is Andrés, but their words fly past Memo’s ears unheard, because Rafa is walking towards him, a wide smile on his face, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, the only reminder that the captain is not getting any younger.  
  
Memo could not have done this without Rafa. The captain is the one who leads the defence, makes Memo’s job easy for him. But even more than that, it is because Rafa has always believed in him, much more than Memo has ever believed in himself.  
  
Rafa collects Memo into his arms, his hands combing through the wild curls and his body pressed flush against Memo’s. This much is alright, even in public, because everyone else does it too, everyone is hugging Memo tonight.  
  
This time Memo does not hesitate before returning the hug: he wraps his arms around Rafa’s waist and lifts him in the air, his face pressed against the juncture of Rafa’s neck, his lips brushing against the bare skin right where the collar of the red jersey ends.  
  
“You were incredible,” Rafa tells him, his breath warm against Memo’s ear, “You were absolutely amazing. You’re the hero today.”  
  
Memo lets him down reluctantly as their teammates start gathering around them, but does not pull out of the embrace right away, enjoying that one moment of silence, his brain blocking out everything around him. Just Rafa, Rafa, Rafa…  
  
“Thank you,” Memo whispers when they separate, the roar of the audience flooding over him again.  
  
He is swooped away from his teammates too soon, taken from one interview to the next, everyone asking the same questions, singing the same praises. It is only when he is holding the  _Man of the Match_  trophy that he actually begins to understand what a huge deal this is.  
  
“I think I’m gonna pass out,” he tells Chicharito when he finally makes it back to the dressing room, sitting down next to his friend and throwing a towel over his face to block out the curious eyes of his teammates.  
  
He might be exaggerating, but it is not really so far away from the truth: the world is spinning around him, the chants of the Mexican fans still ringing in his ears, words like  _national hero_  feeling unfamiliar, terrifying.  
  
“They’re already talking about making you the next president,” Andrés notes helpfully as he strides over to them, surfing through his smart phone for recent headlines. He has already changed and looks ready to go – the same as most of the others, everyone just waiting for Memo.  
  
“How the hell am I gonna live up to the expectations now?” Memo asks helplessly as he drops the towel from his face, looking from one friend to another, the earlier exhilaration diminishing fast as he realizes everyone will be waiting for him to produce same level of performance in the next game as well, “I’m not  _that_  good. I’m just me.”  
  
“And that’s more than enough,” Andrés assures him before reaching out to ruffle Memo’s hair, whispering into his ear cheekily, “Now go get a shower. You might catch some alone-time with the captain if you hurry.”  
  
Memo almost walks into Rafa at the shower room door. His eyes gets stuck on the tanned chest, still moist from the shower, droplets of water sliding down his stomach.  
  
“You’re gonna keep us waiting,” Rafa teases Memo with an amused smirk, his voice forcing Memo to lift his gaze back to his face.  
  
“Sorry, I won’t be long,” Memo mumbles, quickly rounding around Rafa and slipping into the shower room. Their shoulders brush against each other unintentionally, and the skin-on-skin contact makes shivers run down Memo’s spine.  
  
“I’ll be waiting then,” Rafa’s reply sounds almost suggestive, almost flirting, but not quite. Not anymore, and definitely not when their teammates can hear them.  
  
  
  


_Recife // June 23, Monday // Croatia – Mexico // 1 – 3_

  
  
  
  
They have almost a week to prepare for the next match after they beat Croatia.  
  
Most of it is filled with training, tactical meetings – and interviews, endless interviews, for every media outlet imaginable. Memo is one of their favourite victims, because suddenly he is a phenomenon, his name of everyone’s lips, and Memo is not sure he likes the change.  
  
“It’s all for your pretty face,” Andrés teases him after another reporter leaves their hotel following a one-on-one with the keeper, “And your ridiculous hair, of course – you’re like the poster boy for the whole team. They want a piece of the Cinderella story before you turn back into the ugly duckling.”  
  
Memo rolls his eyes good-naturedly and catches Andrés into a headlock before he can escape into the elevators, “Shut up. You’re just jealous because my hair’s prettier than yours.”  
  
“Yeah, because I’d love to look like a broccoli,” Andrés chokes out between his laughter, prying on Memo’s arm to get out of his hold.   
  
A few passers-by give them confused looks but leave them be when Memo flashes them an innocent smile and drops a casual kiss to his friend’s forehead. Maybe Andrés is onto something – Memo could probably get away with murder if he just smiled prettily enough.  
  
It is at that moment that Rafa steps out of the elevator.  
  
Memo drops his hands from Andrés’ neck immediately, brushing off his clothes to get rid of the few wrinkles that the scuffle has left him with.  
  
“You done?” Rafa asks with a raised eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he looks from Andrés to Memo and back. Suddenly Memo feels like a kid again, waiting to be berated by his captain.  
  
“Yeah, it was nothing,” Andrés is quick to assure, elbowing Memo painfully between the ribs, “Memo’s just trying to prove he’s prettier than me.”  
  
“That doesn’t take much,” Rafa deadpans, laughing out loud when Andrés lets out an insulted huff, “I’d like to have a word with Memo alone, if you don’t mind?”  
  
“All yours,” Andrés pokes Memo’s side once more before disappearing into the elevator, probably to pester some other teammate in the meantime – or maybe to call his family before the dinnertime.  
  
Memo follows Rafa into an empty corner in the lobby, secluded enough to avoid curious ears but visible enough to keep themselves from doing anything stupid – at least that is what Memo believes Rafa is thinking.  
  
“Are you okay?” Rafa is the first to speak, meeting Memo’s eyes squarely. He is close enough to touch, leaning on the wall casually. For some reason Memo feels like he should look away, like he is going to be blinded if he keeps looking.  
  
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
Memo would be okay if Rafa stopped looking at him like that: like he wanted to tear off his clothes and be done with it, take a trip down the memory lane, forget about their families for a while.  
  
“Figured you might be exhausted, with all the media attention and all,” Rafa touches his arm – a friendly gesture, nothing more – but he lingers there a moment too long, “You seemed so out of it after the Brazil game, and even more so after Croatia. I was a bit worried.”  
  
“I’m fine. It’s my job, remember?” Memo does not even have to force the smile, even though Rafa is right: he is exhausted. But the captain’s worry is more than he was expecting, and it makes Memo irrationally happy.  
  
“Your job is to stop the shots, not to look pretty for the cameras,” one side of Rafa’s mouth twitches into a teasing smirk, and he reaches out to push a stray curl away from Memo’s face, “I’m not even allowed to feel jealous anymore, am I?”  
  
“Rafa,” Memo breathes out the name, trying to keep his tone warning, “You’re starting to sound like Andrés. Stop it.”  
  
Rafa barks out a laugh, pulling his hands away and taking a step back to put himself to a respectable distance from Memo. Suddenly Memo feels like he can breathe normally again.  
  
“Just tell me if it becomes too much for you. I could have a word with the coach, get you a day off from the interviews,” Rafa is back to his normal captain persona, calm and collected, authority in his voice.  
  
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” Memo assures him again, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear only for it to immediately fall back to his face, “It’s good practice for when we win this World Cup, right?”  
  
“Just focus on this game for now, kid,” Rafa chuckles before pulling Memo into a quick hug, his lips brushing Memo’s temple as if by accident. The touch is gone before Memo realizes it was there in the first place.  
  
“Not a kid anymore,” Memo reminds, looking down at his shoes to hide the decidedly childish blush that spreads over his face, making even his ears burn.  
  
“I know,” Rafa replies, walking backwards, not letting Memo out of his sight before it is absolutely necessary, “I know. I’m sorry.”  
  
  
  


_Fortaleza // June 29, Sunday // Netherlands – Mexico // 2 – 1_

  
  
  
  
Memo feels like crying – no, he already cried, in the showers while no one was looking – because it is not fair, they did not deserve to go out like this.  
  
He might have had easier time handling the disappointment had it been his own mistake that took them out, but the second  _Man of the Match_ trophy is there to remind him he did well, it was anything but his fault that they were eliminated.  
  
Rafa has not said a word since they left the stadium hours ago: he hid at the back of the bus on the way to the airport, and then spent the flight back to Santos staring out of the window, only grunting when anyone made an attempt to talk to him.  
  
They have only one more day in Brazil, to pack their belongings and take the one last chance to stroll around the city. Then they will travel back to Mexico, before taking their separate ways, heading out for holidays before the preseason.  
  
Memo still has no idea where he is heading after his vacation is over – he will have to call his agent soon, to ask about the negotiations, but not yet. Not yet.  
  
First he needs to talk to Rafa, because this is his last chance during this tournament – maybe even his last chance ever – to come to terms with his feelings.   
  
Because the feelings are not going away, not after four years, not even after a decade and more.  
  
After dinner, Memo follows Rafa to his hotel room door without saying a word, falling just one step behind him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His room is one floor below Rafa’s, but none of their teammates dares to point it out.  
  
“Okay, what do you want?” Rafa turns around only when they reach the door, his hand on the knob and the key in his hand, “I’m not in a mood for talking, Memo, if you haven’t noticed.”  
  
“I wanna come in,” Memo retorts simply, holding Rafa’s gaze until the captain gives in and opens the door, letting Memo follow him into the room.  
  
The room is bigger than Memo’s – captain’s privileges – and it has a view to the ocean, although the night is too dark to actually see the horizon anymore.  
  
Memo slips into the balcony, leaning on the railing and studying the lights of the city below.  
  
He has no idea what he is supposed to do now. His plan had been to get Rafa alone and just see where things went from there, but now that they actually have the privacy to talk about  _them_ , all the words escape Memo, leaving him as shy and confused as he was during their first time together.  
  
“I’m sorry, Memo,” Rafa’s words take him by surprise, and Memo spins around to face the captain who has followed him to the balcony door, “For not taking you to the final.”  
  
“It wasn’t your fault,” Memo retorts softly, because Rafa needs to hear it, “You did nothing wrong. I know, I was there, right behind you when he went down.”  
  
“I should’ve been more careful,” Rafa is quick to argue, but Memo can see his features softening, “At least we could’ve gone to the overtime.”  
  
Memo hums quietly, not agreeing or disagreeing, and turns around to stare at the dark ocean.  
  
They stay silent for a long time, Rafa joining him by the railing. The gentle night breeze is blowing through Memo’s hair, throwing them to his face, but Memo does not bother pushing them away.  
  
“I imagined we could have a future, you know?” surprisingly it is Rafa who breaks the silence, not looking at Memo as he speaks, looking almost embarrassed to admit such a thing, “Just for a moment, back in South Africa. I would’ve left Jaydy in a heartbeat if you had asked me to.”  
  
It is the first time Memo realizes how wrong he had been back then, when he assumed neither of them wanted more than a momentary distraction from the ongoing tournament.  
  
“Sorry, I guess I was too young to notice,” he chuckles humourlessly, glancing at Rafa’s face quickly before averting his eyes again, “Too immersed with my own dreams and insecurities. God, I really was just a kid back then, wasn’t I?”  
  
It is too late now, too late to turn things around, too late to give it a chance.  
  
Rafa’s arms around his waist feel familiar, safe, and so does his body pressed against Memo’s back and his lips brushing against his neck.  
  
“Man can dream, right?” the words are whispered against the shell of Memo’s ear, Rafa’s breath warm against his skin, but it still sends shivers down Memo’s spine.  
  
“I thought you weren’t part of my dream?” Memo whispers, his voice trembling as Rafa nibbles his ear, his teeth teasing the lobe, before moving back to his neck, his arms pulling Memo flush against him.  
  
“I’m not – this is  _my_  dream.”  
  
Memo follows Rafa back into the room, away from the prying eyes of the passers-by, the captain’s hands never leaving his waist.  
  
The first kiss is chaste, delicate, hesitant, Rafa’s fingers caressing Memo’s cheeks and his lips hovering over Memo’s for what feels like an eternity before he finally closes the distance. Their first kiss after four years of dreaming, of yearning.  
  
Memo whimpers against Rafa’s lips as they deepen the kiss, Rafa’s tongue sliding between his parted lips. Rafa tastes like the garlic and coconut from the fish he ate for dinner.  
  
It really feels like a dream, the world spinning around Memo, Rafa’s hands slipping under his t-shirt, cool fingers caressing the heated skin underneath, pulling the shirt over his head when they finally part for air.  
  
Their clothes fall to the floor one by one – Memo is not even sure which are his anymore – and then there is nothing but skin on skin and Rafa’s hands in his hair and lips on his, one open-mouthed kiss after another.   
  
Nothing has ever felt so natural.  
  
They end up on the bed, Memo on top, their legs entangled and hands searching, looking for the same spots they discovered all those years ago, but instead finding new dibs and curves, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.  
  
The climax comes too soon, Rafa’s firm hands pushing Memo over the edge. But at the same time it feels like the absolutely perfect timing when Memo can feel Rafa bucking into his hand a few more times, gasping for air against Memo’s lips as he finds his own release.  
  
“Can’t we dream together?” Memo asks quietly when they lie under the wrinkled sheets, Rafa’s hands wrapped around his waist, their legs still twisted together, “Does it have to be either your dream or my dream?”  
  
It is too late to have anything real – it is too late to have a  _future_  – but maybe there is still time for one more dream, for one more story that will never be told.  
  
“There’s an ocean between us,” Rafa reminds him, pressing a gentle kiss into Memo’s hair, “Your place is in Europe, where your career is.”  
  
“You could come back,” Memo argues without much conviction, “I’m sure you could transfer back to Europe after this World Cup – you were amazing.”  
  
 _Come back and be part of my dream. Come back and let me be part of yours._  
  
“Maybe I could,” Rafa whispers and kisses Memo’s hair again, lingering there, tightening his hold around his waist, “But would it be worth it? Would anything come out of it?”  
  
Memo has no answers, so he just snuggles closer into Rafa’s embrace and lets him pepper his face with more kisses: his forehead, his temple, his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, and finally his mouth again, a soft brush of lips that tastes like tears and loss.  
  
Memo realizes he is the one crying only when Rafa lifts his hand to wipe away his silent tears.  
  
  
  


_”A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality.” – Yoko Ono_


End file.
